Homing Instinct
by redcandle
Summary: Drunk and terrified the night of the Blackwater Battle, the Hound seeks out his little bird. Sansa/Sandor.


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and elements from A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R.R. Martin. No copyright infringement is intended.

Sandor staggered away from the column of men leaving him behind, men braver than him led by the Imp. _The bloody Imp is more a man than you._ He needed a drink more than he'd ever needed one before. He grabbed a passing boy dressed in the garb of a kitchen servant. "Wine. Lots of it. Bring it NOW! If I have to come looking for you, I'll beat you bloody."

"Aye," the boy said, and scampered off.

_At least he didn't call me ser._ Sandor would gladly face a host of giants but fire...He'd faced that inferno outside the castle walls three times, all the while wondering if he'd died already and was in the worst of the seven hells. He couldn't remember guiding Stranger or leading men or swinging his sword; all he'd been aware of was the fire. The flames had been close enough to him the last time to singe his cloak. His white cloak. _Joff should have let old Barristan keep it._

The serving boy returned with four wineskins. Sandor snatched them from him without a word. He uncorked one immediately and held it to his mouth. He finished it right away, taking fast gulps that nearly choked him. He flung the emptied skin aside and started on a second one. He was on the third when he realized he was outside Maegor's Holdfast. The sellswords dressed up in Lannister red lowered the drawbridge for him without waiting for a command. He had escorted Joffrey here more times than he could ever count, years of his life. Six years or was it seven now? Seven years. That's how old he'd been when Gregor...the fire...Sandor finished the third wineskin.

He'd brought the little bird here too. After Joffrey had had her beaten and she was bloody and bruised. She always thanked him when he left her at her chamber door, though she was only a moment of privacy away from crying. She was so courteous...so pretty...He realized with a start that he was outside her room. He opened the door and found the room lit by the terrible green light of the flames consuming the city, bright enough for him to see that no one was there.

The walls were spinning around him. He needed to sit for a moment. Sandor sat on the bed and set his last wineskin down on the small table nearby. She'd promised him a song, he remembered. He knew she would sing as sweetly as she did everything else. He stretched out and closed his eyes to that horrible green light. The bed was so soft and the pillows smelt good. _Like her. She smells like that._ He wished Joff sent him to bring her to him more often. She always smelled so good and looked so pretty when she'd made herself beautiful for the king. Sandor must have slept because the next thing he knew, she was there.

"Lady," he heard her whimper.

It took him a moment to remember the direwolf she'd had. It used to amuse him to hear her call the wolf Lady, though the animal was indeed as well-behaved as her mistress. Joff and the queen had taken her wolf and left her all alone, but she had him...Sandor sat up and grabbed her arm.

The little bird told him he was scaring her.

It wasn't fair, though he thought he'd long since lost hope in fairness. He'd saved her and told her how to survive here and wiped her blood and tears away and he'd never beat her. Why couldn't she stop being afraid of him.

He told her she would never let anyone hurt her again and she just closed her eyes.

Of course. His ugly face. That's why she was scared of him and why she couldn't look at him. As if he wouldn't undo the burns if he could do anything about them. He'd even been to a woodswitch once when he was about nine years old. The old woman had merely rubbed foul herbs on him and taken his coins and left him as ugly as ever.

If the little bird didn't want him, he would leave her be, but not before he got his song. She'd _promised_ him, and it was the least she owed him. He pushed her down onto the bed and drew his dagger. He put the blade to her pretty neck and told her to sing.

She sang to the Mother for mercy. Sandor had screamed and begged for mother, for both his mother and the great Mother above, but neither had heard him while Gregor held him in the fire. She stopped singing and he belatedly remembered the dagger pressed to her throat and quickly moved it away. He wanted to bury his face against her neck and cry. Then she touched him, so tenderly, and he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her and shove himself as deep inside her as possible. Then he remembered what she'd said earlier, "you're scaring me" and "you're hurting me."

"Little bird," he whispered, wishing he was as gifted with words as the singers so he could make her understand he was sorry and he didn't mean to frighten her. But he couldn't find the words so he climbed off the bed silently. A gust of wind came through the open window and brought the smell of fire into the room and made his cloak swirl around him. He tore off the white cloak and dropped to the floor as he made his way out of the room. He didn't look back; if he did he would not be able to control himself. He'd take his gold and his horse and his sword and go someplace where there were no fires and no pretty little ladies.


End file.
